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Only I didn’t have one. What they’d seen was real, at least on my end. It was raw and new and kind of terrifying—no, very terrifying—but it was pure magic. I’d tapped into a new kind of happy. The kind of happy that held so much more meaning and was so much more satisfying because it had been through the thick of it and had come out stronger on the other side.
When I made it to my mom, she dropped her attention to the pot in front of her. “Don’t mind me. I’m just making a Bolognese over here.” She hummed, feigning nonchalance as she threw a dishtowel over her shoulder.
Yeah, right. This was the nosiest bunch of people I’d ever met. Even Adam, who usually acted like he’d been forced to show up, was leaning forward, eagerly waiting for my answer.
I shrugged, my heart pounding a little harder in my chest. “We’re…trying a new approach.”
That was the only way I could describe it. Though it wasn’t necessarily an approach on my side. It was more like a goal. A target. And I had thousands of arrows and all the time in the world to hit it. I was prepared to make this work, no matter what it looked like.
“Ah.” Luke’s lips pulled up on one side. “So history repeating itself.”
My stomach knotted. I didn’t really like that phrase. History was not repeating itself. Not for us. Not for who we were before and what we were becoming. Articulating the intricacies of our relationship was impossible, and I couldn’t pinpoint exactly how history played into it. I just knew I wanted her. Unapologetically.
As though she could read my mind, Mom turned back to me, her eyes warm and her smile full of encouragement.
“Sometimes history repeats itself, but sometimes it rewrites itself entirely.”
“How’s the project going?” Nathan picked up his fork and eyed me, breaking the ice.
After Mom announced that dinner was ready, the girls came back inside, and we all sat at the table. To my surprise and absolute delight, Marigold sat next to me. Since that moment, my family had been staring at us like we were monkeys in the zoo. I half expected one of them to pull out a recording device and launch into an all-out interview. Clueless to the situation, Marigold had sipped her water and waited for my dad to bless the food.
Even as we dug in, the room was mostly silent, like everyone was trying to piece together this new dynamic.
“Good.” I gave Nathan a grateful smile. “Really good, actually. I think we have a shot at winning this thing.” I elbowed Marigold. “Don’t you?”
She nodded and held a hand over her mouth as she chewed. Once she’d swallowed, she turned to Nathan. “Yeah, I definitely feel like we’re putting in more effort than the others.”
“I bet you are.” Crew coughed into his fist.
Beside him, Calla tried and failed to hold back a laugh.
“Do you guys like it so far?” Nathan asked the boys.
Dallas groaned and slumped in his seat. “They won’t even let us see it. They said it has to be some kind of big surprise.”
I pointed at him with my fork. “You’ll thank us later. It’s more fun this way.”
Conversation went on from there. Mom asked Nathan about his new piano class. Layla told us about the book she was releasing over the summer. Crew detailed the new items he’d added to his menu in hopes of enticing his regular customers, or “traitors,” as he called them, to come back.
Marigold tilted toward me. “Can you pass the—”
I snagged the salt and pepper from the table and set them beside her plate with a quick wink.
Her cheeks went pink, and her lips turned up. “Oh, and the—”
The container of my mom’s homemade sauce was sitting next to the salt before she could finish the sentence.
The smile she gave me was shy but full of appreciation.
Like maybe she was finally remembering that we had always been this way. Even in tough times. Even when we fought constantly. Even when we were indifferent toward each other. No matter how we felt, no matter how distant we were, I’d always been able to read her like the back of my hand. I could finish her every thought because I had spent so many years studying her every expression. I’d watched her like a hawk, memorizing each silent cue.
The way she dipped her chin when she was embarrassed, how she would puff out her chest before cursing—that was something I’d rarely seen since she’d become a mom—how she popped her fingers when she was anticipating bad news, and how she would bite the inside of her cheek when she had to get onto the boys.
She was an open book I wanted to read over and over again. The book had closed seven years ago, but I’d finally cracked its spine once more. This time, I was determined to not let it shut.
The boys scarfed down their food, then asked if they could go back to playing in the guest room. Marigold said it was fine as long as they didn’t go missing again, to which Dad mumbled about having a heart attack. Mom dished out homemade tiramisu and brought mugs of coffee out for each of us. Except Goldie, who had English breakfast tea in a mug painted with marigolds that my mom had always reserved for her.
I tipped close to Marigold, relishing the warmth that spread through me when my arm brushed hers. “Want to eat this outside?”
